That, Elena was not expecting. Illium’s mother was astonishingly gifted and had a sense of goodness about her that was haunting, but she was also fractured deep within. “Are you sure?” she murmured. “I’ve always thought she needs routine.” The Hummingbird had come more often to New York since the time Illium fell from the sky, but even then, she tended to stick to the people and places she knew.
“She does,” Raphael said, a frown on his face. “Why do you suggest this, Aodhan? You know she will not leave the Refuge beyond a certain period.”
“The Hummingbird also has a compulsion to help others,” Aodhan said. “And she does not need to be always at the township—she can return to the Refuge several times a year. Healing the people of the town will give her a purpose.”
Something unspoken passed between Aodhan and Raphael at that instant, and Elena knew she was missing something, but she didn’t ask. When Illium wanted her to know, he’d tell her. Until then, she’d keep her counsel. But she wanted to add something. “If you suggest her, make sure she has support staff.”
A nod, before Raphael turned to the Cadre. His suggestion was met with shock . . . then slow and thoughtful agreement. In the end, it was decided to offer the task to her, and tell her that she could bring anyone she wished with her. Though she was technically part of Raphael’s territory, no one appeared to have any concerns that she’d be partisan.
“The Hummingbird lives in her own world,” Neha murmured. “She will not play politics.”
That seemed to be it. The Cadre left one by one, after first ordering the exiled Luminata to gather their belongings in readiness for departure as soon as the storm passed. Neha took charge of Ibrahim, asking General Hiran, Valerius, and Xander to bring the injured man to her suite. Laric went with his patient.
Caliane was the last to leave. Touching her hand to Raphael’s, she said, “Do not let death define you, my son.”
“Gian’s crime was against you,” Raphael said to Elena’s grandparents after his mother had exited the room, leaving the six of them alone. “You have the right to decide his punishment.”
Elena saw rage fill the eyes of her grandfather, saw his fangs flash. But when he would’ve stalked toward Gian, Majda placed a single hand on his chest and shook her head. “We are not him,” she whispered to Jean-Baptiste. “The archangel’s advice was not for our grandchild’s husband, it was for us. We are not him. We do not torture. We do not get drunk on ugliness and violence.” Her voice shook. “We love. That is who we are.”
Jean-Baptiste trembled, but forced his eyes off Gian’s cringing body. “Archangel,” he said roughly, his gaze locked with his wife’s. “I would ask a great favor. Imprisonment, not death.” He shook his head at Majda when she parted her lips. “We are not him, but he also does not deserve to die quickly. That is too much mercy.”
“Imprisonment. It is done.” Raphael looked at Gian. “You will not fly free for the same amount of time you imprisoned each of your victims, the terms to run consecutively. At which point, they will decide if you deserve the mercy of death.”
Gian screamed. “No! I am the Luminata! I am—”
Flicking a faint touch of power toward him, Raphael sent him into unconsciousness. “Aodhan, carry him to an empty room and lock him there for the duration. Stand guard. We will take him with us and he’ll serve his imprisonment under the same sky where Majda and Jean-Baptiste’s blood flies free.”
Thunder boomed above them, but when Elena looked up to the miraculously whole glass dome of the Atrium, she saw no flashes of lightning in the turbulent black sky. The storm was passing. Raphael would leave for China in a matter of hours . . . would fly into the territory of the Archangel of Death.
45
Stay safe, Archangel. Or I’ll hunt you down.
The words she’d spoken to Raphael before she got on the plane to New York and he turned to fly back to rejoin the rest of the Cadre.
As always, he’d smiled, kissed her. “I would not dare be hurt. Watch over my city, hbeebti.”
She would, to the very best of her ability.
Turning from the edge of the high Tower balcony from where she’d watched the skies for him since the instant she landed earlier that morning, Elena looked at the woman who stood in the doorway. Majda and Jean-Baptiste had come with her to New York, would stay for a little while, but Elena guessed they’d be returning to Morocco, to the place that had been their home.
Sadness lay a heavy shroud on Majda’s features; it had been that way ever since Elena told her about Marguerite on the plane, about the baby Majda had fled with to safety. “Jean-Baptiste had told me to run if he ever disappeared,” Majda had said after the first rush of tears. “Just run and keep going.”
“Did you go to France because it was his homeland?”
A smile that held no joy. “No. That would’ve made it too easy for Gian to track us. My husband, though he has such a French name, was born in the Amazon jungle to scientist parents. I ended up in France by chance, stayed because my baby needed a home.”
The two of them hadn’t spoken much more about the details behind Majda’s flight. They’d had time in Lumia, but Majda and Jean-Baptiste had needed that time to adapt to freedom and to just be with one another after decades of torment. One thing Majda had asked was why Elena was named Elena.
“After you,” Elena had told her. “My father chose the name that’s on my birth certificate, but I’m fairly certain my mother made sure that name was one that could be shortened to Elena.”